Lee Wilkinson - Taken for Revenge - Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride

As a way of getting back at Cesare it would be a masterly move. But getting back at him for what? For being autocratic? Because that was him —he was right—it was part of what attracted her to him as well as what ultimately made them incompatible.

She couldn’t punish the man just because he was making her feel stuff she didn’t want to feel. You couldn’t hold someone else responsible for your mood—because in the end that was all down to you.

There was a bustle and a buzz, and Sorcha looked round to see what all the fuss was about just as a man dressed entirely in black walked into the studio with Cesare directly behind him.

‘Is that the photographer?’ Sorcha whispered.

‘You don’t know?’ The assistant looked at her as if she had just been beamed down from another planet. ‘That’s Maceo di Ciccio,’ she said. ‘And that’s Cesare di Arcangelo with him—oh, but you know him, don’t you? Didn’t he bring you here?’

‘He certainly did,’ said Sorcha pleasantly.

Cesare gave her a cool look, and she sent him an equally cool one back, which made his eyes narrow in mocking response. But Sorcha knew that she was playing with fire. That the feelings she had had for him all those years ago hadn’t just faded away into nothing. He still amused her and he still stimulated her, on far more than just a physical level—and that was where the danger lay.

Men were good at keeping things purely sexual, and women were notoriously bad at it. Even worse, sex brought out an emotional response in women which had the capacity to make them weak as kittens.

Well, that’s not going to be me, she thought fiercely.

She watched as the photographer was greeted with reverence by all his acolytes, and Sorcha couldn’t help thinking that Maceo di Ciccio was on the wrong side of the camera.

He was wearing black jeans and a fine cashmere sweater. His face was rugged—with harsh angles and slanting black eyes—but although his mouth was soft and sensual, there was an almost cruel curve at the edge of his lips. With his ruffled black hair, he looked a little like a buccaneer—the kind of man who would just go all out to get what it was he wanted. And, looking like that, she didn’t imagine he had to try very hard.

Cesare watched while an assistant held a light meter under Sorcha’s chin, and he wondered where his expected feeling of triumph had gone. He had got his way, because she was here—even though she didn’t look as if she particularly wanted to be—and he had been enjoying some mind-blowing and no-strings sex with her into the bargain!

So what was the cause of the black mood which had enveloped him since he’d got out of bed that morning? Alone, after she’d damned well made him drive her home at some godforsaken hour. As usual.

And that was the irony—because he liked to sleep alone. He liked to wake up when he wanted, rather than have some female slipping out from beneath him, disturbing him while she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and brush her hair in order to achieve that just-got-out-of-bed look.

Sometimes in the cold, cruel light of day it wasn’t easy to make conversation, and the easy talk of the night before became stilted and formal. At night you had the cloak of darkness and the comfort of wine to take the edge off uncomfortable silences.

She had tied him up in knots yet again, and he damned well resented it!

‘But she is beautiful,’ Maceo suddenly murmured in Italian at his side. ‘You told me she was a witch.’

Cesare looked at her, and a sudden unease prickled at his skin. ‘Witches can be beautiful,’ he drawled. Ignoring his friend’s assessing expression, he leaned back against the wall to watch as Maceo walked across the studio towards her.

‘Ciao, bella,’ said Maceo softly, and Sorcha got the sudden intimation of being in the presence of a creative genius. Pulling off the cashmere sweater to reveal a black T-shirt beneath, he handed it to a waiting assistant and narrowed his eyes. ‘So you are Sorcha, si? ’

‘Yes, that’s me.’ Sorcha smiled nervously. ‘Um, you do know I’m not a professional model? In fact, I’ve never done anything but family snapshots in my life.’

‘I can tell—but that is perfect,’ he murmured. ‘Just as you are perfect. I am not looking for the professional model, with her face just so, who tosses her head back— so…! ’

He gave an exaggerated flick of his dark head and Sorcha giggled.

‘That is good,’ he said softly. ‘I want you to laugh, for you must be….how do you say? Saucy! Si, for that is what Cesare wishes. For the sauce!’

All the assistants laughed sycophantically.

Across the other side of the studio, Cesare felt his face turning to stone. Since when had Maceo decided to ham up his Italian side—and why? Especially when Maceo’s English was as good as his own. But he answered his own question when he saw Sorcha responding as if he was God’s gift to women. Couldn’t she see through all that hand-waving stuff?

Apparently not. Because now she was nodding her head energetically at something that the photographer was saying to her. Usually the two men formed a strong mutual admiration society, but suddenly Cesare felt like withdrawing his membership.

He had known Maceo since they were both five—when their two very different worlds had collided at a weekly judo class. Maceo had won a scholarship to study it, and it had been one of Cesare’s many afterschool activities, designed to keep him out of the house.

Maceo had risen from the slums and had had to claw his way up from the very bottom—perhaps that was what had helped give him his unique talent for seeing behind the masks that people presented. He had photographed models and princesses, queens and criminals—and then grown bored with it.

With the money he had earned, Maceo had bought an ailing fashion magazine and discovered that he had a talent for breathing new life into media ventures. These days he owned a TV station, several more magazines, and was proprietor of one of Italy’s top-selling newspapers. He rarely took photos—only when the fancy took him. This favour to Cesare had amused him and been gladly given—so why the hell was Cesare now wishing that he had gone the more conventional route and employed someone that the ad agency had recommended?

And why was he feeling jealous of Maceo when Sorcha was a woman he was merely having sex with in order to finally get her out of his system?

Maceo smiled at her. ‘You are ready, bellezza? ’

Sorcha nodded—even though her heart was racing with nerves—feeling like a lamb headed for the slaughterhouse as she stood in front of the charismatic photographer. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she gulped.

‘Then come over here. Just here—you see? Just ignore the stylist—she paints the tomato with oil to make it look shiny. Relax, Sorcha. Just relax. Si, that is better. Now, put your finger in your mouth. Yes. That is perfect. Ah, si! You are perfect. Bellezza! ’

A nerve flickered in Cesare’s cheek.

He knew that in order to get the very best out of a subject Maceo was photographing it was necessary for the subject to relax. So why shouldn’t Maceo call Sorcha beautiful, when that was nothing but the truth?

And why the hell was it eating him up?

Sorcha could feel her heart hammering. This was a nightmare —especially with Cesare standing in the shadows of the room, his silhouette looking so darkly forbidding. All she could see was the glitter of his eyes, but she could sense his disapproval as surely as if it were radiating in waves from his hard, lean body. And who was the one who had set this whole thing up?